


Don't Write These Poems

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Jewish Bruce Wayne, Jewish Character, M/M, Recovery, Trauma, superbatfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 19:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: Bruce Wayne had planned his whole life around a promise borne out of grief. Turns out, there are events one cannot prepare for.





	Don't Write These Poems

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [this incredible scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjAFbEP0wK4) from _Batman: Mask of the Phantasm_

Raindrops pattered against the windows, thunder rolling in the distance. Bracketed by the warmth of Clark’s body lying next to him, Bruce stared at the ceiling, unable to find rest. With a frown, he listened to Clark wheezing, lungs struggling to regain normal functioning after inhaling copious amounts of kryptonite powder. Carefully shifting his weight, Bruce disentangled himself from the covers and got off the bed, stretching his arms over his head to ease the tension in his shoulders. After turning Clark onto his back and sliding a pillow between his knees, Bruce turned his attention toward the sun lamps he’d set up around the bed. Though Leslie assured him Clark had received optimal exposure on the Watchtower and simply needed rest to regain his strength, Bruce preferred to err on the side of caution. He fiddled with the settings and positioning of the lamps. Clark did not stir once. Bruce walked to his side and reached to touch his face, noting the fading bruise high on his cheekbone, not quite healed.

Legs restless, Bruce came to stand by the window. Outside, the storm raged on, wind howling, causing the trees to sway in a mesmerizing dance. Maybe, Bruce thought as guilt churned in his stomach, the severe weather would be enough to deter most criminal activity. His mind was already making calculations for the hours he’d have to put in to make up for the lost night, cycling through his active cases and predicting the complications that could arise. Most importantly, though, he’d have to assure Luthor’s kryptonite supply was truly destroyed, and find out who had been selling it to him; then, he would bring down the full wrath of the Bat on them.

With one last glance at Clark, Bruce exited the room and walked downstairs. A clattering sound greeted him in the hallway and he followed it to the kitchen, where Alfred was stacking dishes, rearranging the content of the cupboards. A habit Alfred only engaged in when someone had been injured or fallen ill.

At the sound of Bruce’s footsteps, Alfred turned, lips drawn tight. “How is Master Clark?”

“Resting,” said Bruce, rubbing a hand over his face. The bedsheets had left deep creases in his cheek. “He should be completely recovered with a few more hours under the lamps.”

The tension eased from Alfred’s shoulders, betraying the extent of his concern even as he schooled his features back into British stoicism. “That is quite a relief.”

Putting his hands in his pockets, Bruce looked down to hide a furtive smile, touched by Alfred’s concern. He’d come to care for Clark like family. “The kids?”

“Master Damian is sleeping,” Alfred reported. “He’d be loathe to admit it, but he appeared relieved to learn you’d be staying in to watch over Master Clark and was quite eager for updates on his condition,” he said. “I believe he’s becoming rather fond of him.”

This time, Bruce didn’t try to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“However,” Alfred continued, “Master Timothy and Ms. Cassandra were substantially more averse to the idea of taking a night off. They were quite insistent on the need to pursue Mr. Luthor.”

“Not without me,” Bruce sighed, running his fingers through his hair. The information didn’t surprise him; both Tim and Cass needed to feel useful when someone in the family had been injured. “They know the rules. Besides, they should be focused on studying for their exams.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

“Why don’t you head to bed, Alfred,” Bruce suggested, noting the exhaustion on his face. Raising his brow, Alfred tilted his head towards the dishes lining the counters. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until morning,” Bruce said in response.

“Very well, Master Bruce,” said Alfred. “Do wake me if you or Master Clark require anything.”

Bruce nodded, watching Alfred retiring to his quarters. He waited for the telltale squeak of the stairs before he picked up the dishtowel and turned to deal with the dishes.

When he finished, Bruce returned upstairs to check on the kids. He found Damian sound asleep in his room, the heavy blanket reaching up to his chin. Titus was curled at his feet, taking up the expanse of the bed. Ears perking up, the dog lifted his head to examine Bruce before returning to his slumber, determining his owner was safe. Even in sleep, Damian’s nose was scrunched up in concentration, a furrow between his brows. Bruce ached to reach over and smooth it, but knew Damian would wake at the lightest touch. For a long moment, he simply stood at the threshold and watched the rise and fall of his son’s chest.

Panic unfurled in Bruce’s chest when he discovered Tim and Cassandra’s rooms empty. He raced down the stairs to check the common areas, finding the pair asleep in his study. Tim’s head was tipped back against the couch, mouth open, yellow highlighter smudged across his chin. Cassandra was pressed to his side, head on her brother’s shoulder. Their textbooks were strewn across the floor. Relief washing over him, Bruce picked up a blanket and covered them both, bending to lay a kiss on top of Tim’s hair and Cassandra’s forehead. She opened one eye and they exchanged a silent look as she searched his face. Whatever she read in his expression was enough to put her at ease and she closed her eyes, breathing slowing down as she fell back asleep. Heart aching at the show of trust, Bruce took it as his cue to slip out of the room.

Back downstairs, he pulled on his boots and coat. The storm had not eased and a gust of wind greeted him when he opened the front door. Still, he did not hesitate stepping into the downpour, picking up a small pebble from the driveway before trailing through the sodden gardens.

When he reached his parents’ graves, he fell to his knees, mud sticking to his trousers. In that moment, the sky opened up and the rain turned into blinding sheets, hail pelting against his skin. Bruce reached out with both hands until he found contact with the headstones, reading the engraved names with his fingertips. He let them linger on the Hebrew inscription on his mother’s grave before placing the pebble on top of it with his left hand.

“I made you a promise,” he said, tongue heavy in his mouth, voice hardly carrying over the angry storm. He did not know what he’d come to say, only that an inexplicable weight compelled him to. “But I never thought —” he tried, shutting his eyes as the wind razed across his face. He grasped the blades of grass beneath his fingers.“It still hurts, but — it doesn’t hurt  _so much_  anymore.” He bowed his head at the admission, breath hitched, shame caught in his lungs. “I never expected… I thought — I didn’t count on being happy.”

A painful constriction pierced his chest, and Bruce clenched his jaw to work through the sharp pain, taking a deep breath. When the attack passed, he turned silent, biting his lip until he could taste blood. The wind picked up its howl, violently slamming against his eardrums.

“I made you a promise,” he repeated, throat raw with the effort. A promise to dedicate his life to pursuing justice, to honour their memory. To allow no distractions. To always put Gotham first, above his own needs. But she no longer was. Bruce had broken his promise tonight and on countless others, leaving the city defenseless. He had been weak, allowing anger and resolve to recede and something else to take their place. Worst of all, he did not have the strength to uproot these new feelings, no matter how detrimental to his mission they were. “I’m sorry,” he tried, hands trembling. He clenched them into tight fists, knuckles turning white, nails digging into his palms. A bolt of lightning split the horizon. “I’m sorry I failed you. I never knew… I didn’t think I could have a family again.”

Minutes or hours passed as he sat on the wet ground, frozen and catatonic. When he found the strength to rise, his feet felt unstable, knees wobbly. The walk back seemed long, each step a greater betrayal, putting more distance between him and the ten-year-old who’d set out to achieve the impossible. Bruce pulled his coat closed against his chest, ice forming in his lungs.

When he reached the Manor, he paused in front of the grandfather clock. He thought about heading down to the Cave, getting to work on tracking Luthor’s supplier. The image of Clark waking alone stopped him, and he headed instead for their bedroom, rubbing the Kryptonese words tattooed around his ring finger.

In the bathroom, he peeled off his sopping clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, wet hair plastered to his forehead and dripping onto the floor, accentuating his pallor and the sunken shadows under his eyes. The raised scars on his torso stood out against his damp skin. He averted his gaze and ducked out of the room, desperate to escape the ghost that haunted him.

The glow of his phone caught his attention, and Bruce grabbed it from the nightstand, glancing at Clark to make sure he hadn’t woken before opening the notification.

_All quiet on patrol,_ read Dick’s message.  _Calling in an early night._

He’d attached a picture of himself parked on his couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, Barbara and Jason on either side of him. Bruce stared at it with a longing that terrified him, studying every detail. Jason’s expression was bored, caught in the midst of rolling his eyes, but he was  _there_ , spending time with his brother. That was the real reason for Dick’s text.

_You’ve got to have patience, B,_ Clark was constantly reminding him.  _Give him time. He’ll come back to you._

Bruce brushed his thumb over the screen, lost in thought when his phone vibrated with another text from his eldest son.

_How’s Big Blue?_

On instinct, Bruce glanced back at Clark. The bruise on his face had faded completely, a healthy glow returning to his cheeks. His breathing had returned to normal.

_Recuperating,_  he typed back.  _Should be back to full strength by morning._

_Good,_ was the response that followed.  _Keep him out of trouble._

Bruce placed his phone back on the nightstand, walking to the dresser in search of underwear. A low groan accompanied by the rustle of sheets caught his attention, and he turned to watch as Clark stirred and sleepily opened his eyes.

“B?”

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce said gently. “You need rest.”

“I feel fine. Come here,” said Clark, reaching his arms from under the covers. He looked warm and inviting, and Bruce wasn’t able to resist, dropping the clothes he’d picked out back into the drawer. He climbed onto the bed, carefully propping his elbows to hold himself on top of Clark.

Clark cupped Bruce’s face, his hands comforting and familiar. “Why are you all wet?” he asked upon coming into contact with cold skin, just as another crack of thunder echoed outside. Bruce shivered in response, teeth chattering. Clark rubbed his shoulders to warm him up. “Jesus, B, you’re freezing.” He lifted the duvet so Bruce could get under the covers, their naked bodies pressed together. The light from the sun lamps shone bright, and Bruce turned to burrow his face into Clark’s neck.

They laid like that for long minutes, saying nothing, Clark’s fingers carding through Bruce’s wet hair. His other hand trailed up and down Bruce’s spine, the touch intimate. Clark always recognized when Bruce needed time to gather his thoughts, never pushed for explanations Bruce wasn’t willing to give. Instead, he allowed him the space to work through his turmoil, his presence a silent support. Never demanding, never asking for more than Bruce could give. It was precisely why and how he’d knocked down all of Bruce’s carefully-architected defenses.

Finally, Clark hooked his thumb under Bruce’s chin and tipped it up so their eyes could meet. “What’s going on, B?” his voice was gentle as he caressed Bruce’s cheek, scratching the hint of stubble on his jaw.

Bruce swallowed, struggling to find the right words. He averted his eyes, staring instead at the delicate curve of Clark’s collarbone. “I never knew.”

“Knew what?”

Bruce brought his hand to rest on Clark’s chest, fingers splaying over his heart, comforted by its strong rhythmic beat. “That it could feel like this.”

Clark’s hand came to rest over Bruce’s, lacing their fingers. “I never knew, either.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://superloislanes.tumblr.com/post/163646876763/superbat-19)


End file.
